It Wasn't Supposed to End This Way
by Believe4Ever
Summary: An Alternate-Universe ending to The Reichenbach Fall. Technical spoilers. Very depressing, read at own risk. Rated T for character death.


**I was having Reichenbach-feels again today, and so in order to cheer myself up, I decided to depress myself even more. Strange how some stories work that way. Anyway, here is an alternate-universe Reichenbach story. Enjoy, cry, and please review.**

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"I didn't expect you up here, Dr. Watson."

John stared at Moriarty, who was sitting by the ledge of the hospital's roof. His phone was sitting in his palm, _Stayin' Alive _pumping out of the tiny speakers so loudly that the ex-medic could hear it from where he stood.

"Did you expect Sherlock?" the soldier questioned warily, slowly walking toward his partner's greatest adversary.

"I did, in fact. I got a text from his phone saying he was coming up here."

"That was me. I had used his phone and slipped it back into his pocket before he left. I had gotten him to go and check on Mrs. Hudson. I told him she'd been shot."

"Oh? And why would you do that?"

John's expression hardened. "He'd have done something risky, if he'd come up here."

"But you won't?"

"No. Because I'm going to throw you off this building."

Moriarty gave a hearty laugh as he stood, clicking off the music. "Johnny Boy, you couldn't do that." The villain walked closer until he was practically touching chests with John. Moriarty clearly had a few inches on the soldier. "If anything, I can throw you off of here." He paused and grinned. "But I won't do that."

"And why not, then?"

"I'd rather make you suffer. I'd rather make both you, and Sherlock suffer."

"How in the world would you do that?"

"By getting you to jump off this building."

An audible laugh escaped from John's mouth before he could stop himself. He reminded himself what a grave situation he was in. But the idea of Moriarty getting him to voluntarily jump off the roof to his death was absurd! How did he imagine he'd accomplish such a task?

"You don't believe me?" the villain growled.

"No, I don't." John even went so far as to smirk at the man.

"Well then perhaps I should inform you that three of your friends will die if you don't."

The ex-medic blinked. "What . . .?"

"That landlady of yours, that stupid inspector, and that idiotic flat mate of yours. All three of them will die, if you don't jump off."

"W-Why—"

"I have three assassins skilled in the area of guns. One in your flat with your landlady right now. Another at the Scotland Yard with a clear view of the inspector. The final is keeping a keen eye on Sherlock Holmes."

"But . . . no, that can't . . ."

"You must jump, Dr. Watson. And if you won't, I could always arrange for that sister of yours to get shot through as well."

John paled. All of this was happening far too fast. How could Moriarty have possibly arranged this? Had he planned on Sherlock being up here, so then he'd kill Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade anyhow? How had this all been arranged so perfectly?

Moriarty's phone gave a little _ding _and the villain checked the device. An evil grin crept onto his face. "Looks like Sherlock is arriving in a cab, right now . . ." Just as he had said, John spotted a cab coming around the corner. "I'll leave you alone, for some privacy. But just remember what I said: I'm arranging the fourth gunman as we speak."

The villain gave an evil laugh as he started to walk away. "Oh, and Dr. Watson . . ." He glanced back, evil glittering in his eyes. "If you mention a word of the situation you're in to Sherlock Holmes, or anyone else, for that matter . . . I'll kill you and the four on the spot."

With that, Moriarty disappeared into the hospital.

Thoughts raced through John's head. How could he get out of this without dying? How, how? No . . . no, there wasn't a way. And if there was a way, John certainly couldn't think of one.

The cab below came to stop and out stepped the consulting detective, trench coat billowing and his curled hair blowing in the slight breeze. John's hands shook as he dialed his friend, and stepped up onto the ledge. It was so high up and caused John's stomach to ache from vertigo.

"You lied to me, John!" Sherlock said, the moment he answered. He headed for the door into the hospital.

"Sherlock," John croaked, his voice unnaturally high, "can you go back where you were?"

"Excuse me? I'm coming in right now, John! You have a lot of explaining to do about—"

"Please! Just go back to where the cab had been!"

Sherlock stopped on the ground, and John could practically see his mind processing what he'd heard. First, he must've heard the panic, distress, and tears in John's voice. Then he must have realized that John knew that he had just gotten out of a cab. The detective backed up and his head lifted into the air. John couldn't see from that height, but Sherlock's face had immediately changed to horrified.

"John, get down right now!"

_You can't tell him what's really going on, _John minded. _But I can't just let him think that I killed myself for no reason . . . I don't want to make him think that it's his fault . . . I wouldn't want to break him . . . _He shook his head slightly. _He's Sherlock, though. He doesn't really care, right?_

"John!" Sherlock's voice almost sounded desperate, of sorts.

"Stop," the soldier said solemnly into the phone.

"What is going on, John?"

"I . . . I'm . . . I'm tired of this."

"Of what?"

"Just . . ." John bit his lip, trying to word it carefully. "Everything."

"Everything?"

"I've had a lot of fun, truly, going on these adventures with you. But . . . It's gotten really hard . . ."

"John, if this about the police suspecting me of being a kidnapper—"

"No, no . . . It has nothing to do with you, Sherlock . . . This is my own fault. This is my own thinking."

"And what exactly are you thinking?"

John closed his eyes. This was getting hard. He could barely stand to look at the detective, far below, even though he couldn't see Sherlock's desperate expression. John's head lifted toward the sky. He'd never really thought about if he believed in God or not, but he had been more hopeful when he'd survived Afghanistan. Now he hoped deeply that there was a God, and that there was a heaven he could go to after all of this.

"John, what are you thinking?" Sherlock's voice almost seemed distant even though John held the phone right up to his ear.

The ex-medic's voice came faintly, "Can you tell everyone that I love them?"

"Tell them yourself, John! Get off of that roof, come down here, and tell them yourself!"

Tears started to push into the soldier's eyes and he tried to blink them away. He hadn't cried since far before the war. He didn't cry when he got shot, he didn't cry when he'd seen some of his closest comrades die, and he'd never cried when he worked with Sherlock. Why were tears suddenly perking into his eyes now? He did remember the last time he had cried. It had been when his sister Harriet had confessed to him about her alcohol addiction. She'd gone on for about an hour about everything going on in her life and the reasons why the addiction had gotten to her, and he'd broken down crying because most of the things going on in her life that had led to her alcoholism, he had had no idea were going on. It had pained him deeply that he didn't know that much about what was going on in her life.

"I don't think I'll have time," John finally whispered into the phone.

"And why not?"

"I . . . I have to do something first."

"John, get down off that roof!"

A couple tears now dripped down the soldier's face. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

"John, no! John, get off the roof now! Jo—"

The ex-medic clicked off the phone and it slipped from his fingers and smashed onto the concrete roof.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screamed from the ground. The soldier squeezed his eyes shut and felt himself tipping forward.

For a split moment, it felt like he was flying through the air.

_SMACK!_

Sherlock felt his body go numb. His legs started moving and nothing could be heard over the screaming in his ears. Echoing words filled his mind. _John . . . fall . . . can't save . . . suicide . . ._

The detective got to his friend and knelt down, hands shaking violently. The ex-medic's body had landed on its side, and then fallen onto the back. A huge red gash was evident on the side of the forehead. Crimson red blood was washing from the wound like a broken dam, turning the man's silvery-blonde hair a disgusting orange-red, and dribbling into a dark pool below his head onto the pavement. The man's eyes were already glassy and dead-looking.

Sherlock's vision turned blurry and it took a moment for his brain to process that salt water had poured into his eyes. Tears. Tears? He was crying? He hadn't cried since he was a boy . . . No, that was a lie. He had shed a few frightened teardrops during the H.O.U.N.D. mystery, but that was when his mind wasn't thinking straight. Although, his mind probably was just as clouded now as before.

"John . . ." Sherlock murmured, fear edging into his voice and panic already having invaded. Spectators who had witnessed the soldier's leap were starting to crowd around. "John . . .!" Sherlock's hands clutched his friend's shoulders. By then the detective was kneeling on the ground, and he pulled John's head up into his lap, ignoring the warm liquid falling from John's head onto his pants.

"Wake up," Sherlock hissed, tears falling down his face. "Wake up, dammit!"

"Sir, please step back," a nurse whispered. She, along with several other nurses and doctors, had brought out a gurney. He swatted her away from him.

"Get rid of that distant look, John!" Sherlock cried, his head hanging and eyes squeezing shut. "Get up!"

A few of the spectators, along with a couple nurses, helped drag Sherlock away from John, but many obscenities and screaming were thrown at them as he flailed and tried desperately to get to his friend. But now. John was long gone. He had been gone the instant he hit the pavement.

_John Watson was dead._

The words rang out in Sherlock's head, but the detective couldn't possibly believe it. John Watson wasn't a man that was supposed to _die. _He was a man that was supposed to live into a hearty age, perhaps get married, and keep Sherlock from doing horrid things to his body. Keep him from getting bored. And go on adventures.

It wasn't supposed to end this way.

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**Again, I'm sorry for the depressing fan fiction. But please review and let me know what you think!**


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